“BILLIONAIRES ON THE MOON”
Personal Project
2021
DIRECTOR / EDITOR / COLORIST
Jordan Pories
MUSIC
“Whitey on the Moon” by Gil-Scott Heron
Personal Project
2021
DIRECTOR / EDITOR / COLORIST
Jordan Pories
MUSIC
“Whitey on the Moon” by Gil-Scott Heron
I hope Jeff Bezos is in a public place next time he experiences heartburn.
I hope his team of ex-Navy SEAL bodyguards all forgot their Tums at home.
I hope he’s forced to seek the nearest convenience store in search of Tums.
I hope he gets there and sees a big fat CLOSED sign. It’s his fault, after all — an Amazon Go store opened up across the street.
I hope he gets to this so-called “Go” only to stop and find the automated machines are all out of Tums. Except for one pack, lodged up against the front of the machine — you know the way — where it feels just so nearly loose, but all the nudging and bumping and slamming does nothing but to lock it up even tighter, wedging it further, deeper into the machine, with nobody there to help him out. Because nobody works there, remember? Wasn’t that the whole idea, Jeff?
I hope he stands there, stomach burning, esophagus corroding, staring tearfully at the jammed tums within his glorified vending machine. I hope he sees himself in his vending machine. I hope he sees a sad-faced egg man in the plexiglass reflection, a man who can afford every single thing in human history, except the very moment he has found himself in.
I hope this happens to you, Jeff.
I hope his team of ex-Navy SEAL bodyguards all forgot their Tums at home.
I hope he’s forced to seek the nearest convenience store in search of Tums.
I hope he gets there and sees a big fat CLOSED sign. It’s his fault, after all — an Amazon Go store opened up across the street.
I hope he gets to this so-called “Go” only to stop and find the automated machines are all out of Tums. Except for one pack, lodged up against the front of the machine — you know the way — where it feels just so nearly loose, but all the nudging and bumping and slamming does nothing but to lock it up even tighter, wedging it further, deeper into the machine, with nobody there to help him out. Because nobody works there, remember? Wasn’t that the whole idea, Jeff?
I hope he stands there, stomach burning, esophagus corroding, staring tearfully at the jammed tums within his glorified vending machine. I hope he sees himself in his vending machine. I hope he sees a sad-faced egg man in the plexiglass reflection, a man who can afford every single thing in human history, except the very moment he has found himself in.
I hope this happens to you, Jeff.